


There's Always Something

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mention Of The Doctor, Oh god, boys making out, fic prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fit of guilt over riling John up on purpose, Sherlock turns to a popular woman's magazine to figure out how to make it up to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Always Something

**Author's Note:**

> Alright Laurette. Here it is. Don't kill me for making you wait so long. Also sorry for shirking on the smut :/

John was angry. Again.

 

 

 

In his defense, Sherlock had warned his flatmate of the possible adverse chemical effects but either John wasn't listening or wasn't present at the time of explanation, a grievance the ashen blond doctor often voiced. He was in fact voicing it this very moment pushing an accusing index finger toward him and about to call him some rendition of the word 'insensitive'. There was a seventy-eight percent chance it would be,

 

"...inconsiderate? I swear to God, Sherlock if you would put one  _millionth_  of your brainpower into showing others any sort of regard you could probably incite world peace!" John aggressively began pulling on his jacket, the black Haversack that suited him best, as Sherlock watched him through slitted eyes, sprawling in his chair like some bored prince. "I've never been so glad to be going in on a Saturday in all my life. I'll have to wear gloves all day now, even though it's not cold enough anymore or not every patient will require them, because nobody wants be treated by a doctor with  _green fingertips_!" To emphasize his point, John wiggled the offending digits at him before shoving them into leather. Sherlock decided that some sort of reactionary facial expression was warranted though he was more than ninety percent positive an amused smile wasn't the appropriate one. 

 

John, holding in a scream by the skin of his teeth almost pushed Sherlock's unsuitable smirk into an all out grin before all but slamming the door behind him. Sherlock had to entertain himself in this boring flat somehow and, for some strange reason, getting John in an uproar always proved to be great fun. 

 

Except for the part a little while after, where he'd begin to feel guilt digging into the floor of his proverbial heart. The hole would continue to widen and deepen until panic began seeping in ever so slowly from the the bottom of it. Usually he could control the come down, finding ways to start filling the hole back up such as rearranging the fridge so his experiments took up less room or making sure there was enough of John's preferred brand of tea. Normally, as the last shovel full was being put in place, he'd receive an apology text from John to tamp down the dirt on top of the now fully filled cavity. He didn't like losing his temper with Sherlock to begin with, especially just after Sherlock's "miraculous" resurrection. Right on cue, around about his lunch break Sherlock's phone buzzed. He smiled smugly(fondly?)over at it on the arm of his chair after having just re-seated himself, refrigerator contents all tidied and even labeled.

 

The hole erupted in a geyser of panic.

 

  
**_GOING TO KIP ON GREG'S SOFA TONIGHT. MAKE SURE AND EAT. -J_**  

 

No. No, no. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. They had a set routine. Everything was just getting back to normal. Why wasn't John coming home with Chinese to complain about his long day? Sherlock resolved, on one of his many sidetracks that he would refuse to eat out of spite. Had he crossed some unseen line? John was usually the one to explain these things to him but it would be ridiculous to ask the man now.

 

Sherlock began to pace, desperately trying to bail out John's wing in his mind palace before it got too flooded for him to find a resolution and overtook the rest of the place. He opened John's laptop but closed it again, absently thinking he hadn't asked permission and went in search of his own. It was on the floor by the side of his bed farthest from the door where he'd dropped it the night before when he was updating his tobacco ash blog. He was positive he'd discovered a new strain in the wilds of Mongolia and was eager to acquire some for further testing as he hadn't proper equipment when he was in hiding from the foot soldiers of the Red Wa drug cartel out of China. He'd blown up one of their warehouses. That was actually one of the few genuinely good times he'd had while he was away. Until he turned to rejoice with John and had to remember for the hundred thousandth time that John wasn't there. At this point he was snapped back to his present dread.

 

Dropping himself onto the side of his bed, he opened the laptop, bringing it to life and quickly entered his password (The meaning of Mycroft's Old English name then the chemical compound for love and another for cake). He asked Google how to apologize and it only came up with the sort of drivel any pop psychologist would give you. He'd scanned several pages and was about to break down and poll his acquaintances, when he came upon an article that finally seemed promising according to the title. It wasn't entirely accurate but "7 Steps To Making Sure Your Man Always Comes Home To You After A Morning Row" was still the closest thing he'd seen to his predicament. The "Your Man" was obviously implied to mean romantically but there was no reason John wouldn't like any of the things on the list whether or not he received "mind blowing make-up sex" at the end.

 

He absorbed the information greedily then shut the lid and rushed off to prepare.

 

 

**_I require your assistance at home. -S_ **

 

Sherlock awaited the answer with baited breath. He used to go about his business whilst waiting for a response. Odd thing, that John had made his way onto the list of what he'd wait for with an anticipation that wasn't easily distracted. Then again, a lot of things had become odd where John was involved.

 

**_I'M SURE YOU CAN HANDLE IT ON YOUR OWN -J_ **

****

With an eye roll and a determined sigh, he tried again, wishing John would turn off the caps lock. It was as if he was still shouting.

 

**_Need extra set of hands with medical experience -S_ **

****

**_INTERESTING YOU NEED THEM WHEN I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN_ **

**_BESIDES WON'T THE COLOUR MESS UP THINGS? -J_ **

****

**_I can't control everything -S_ **

****

**_YOU HAVE THAT ONE RIGHT -J_ **

****

Right now, John was mulling it over, wondering if he would have time to help  _and_  get a pint with Lestrade.

 

**_WILL IT TAKE VERY LONG? -J_ **

 

Got him.

 

**_No. -S_ **

****

Another painful wait where a minute stretched to hours in his mind only to shrink back to the correct amount of time. He wasn't exactly lying. It wouldn't take long to convince John to stay longer.

 

**_IT'S NOT TO HAND YOU A MEDICAL JOURNAL OFF THE SHELF IS IT? -J_ **

****

Sherlock actually did laugh aloud at that. He hadn't done that since he'd been back and it spoke to the returning balance of things that John was concerned about it.

 

**_No. -S_ **

 

**_IMPORTANT? -J_ **

 

John was attempting to talk himself out of it but Sherlock already knew the battle had been lost. He surprised himself with the stark truth of his reply.

 

**_Extremely. -S_ **

**_And if you could get here a bit early, that would be better -S_ **

****

He was most likely questioning Sarah about the afternoon's patient load. He would find that a few replacements suddenly decided they weren't as busy or as ill as they thought they were that rather lovely Saturday and were on the way in. He could leave now if he wished. Sherlock pictured John's reaction, the puzzled frown, wide cobalt eyes searching for an explanation up and to the right, tongue passing thoughtfully over his lips. The whole expression was childlike and, if he was honest, endearing. When had he become such a sap? He sighed, exasperated with himself, but unable to keep the smile off his own face when his phone finally buzzed.

 

**_OTHERS COMING IN TO TAKE OVER. ON MY WAY NOW. CHINESE? I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T EATEN YET TODAY -J_ **

****

Sherlock's smile grew a bit wider at the apologetic meal choice.

 

**_Already taken care of. If you could please hurry. -S_ **

****

**_EVERYTHING ALRIGHT? -J_ **

****

**_Yes, fine. No need to worry. -S_ **

****

Despite his plodding typing ability, John had his coat and outdoor gloves on by now. Walking down the hall and out, stopping to say good-bye on his way took an average of one minute, forty-seven seconds. Walk to the tube station as he wouldn't waste cash on cabs if he could help it and this wasn't an emergency. So three minutes, twelve seconds, reaching the platform in time to wait a little over a minute for the three forty-five train beating the rush hour crowd and playing solitaire on his phone for ten minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Briefly getting service at a mystery spot...

 

**_THE WORDS "PLEASE HURRY" AND "NO NEED TO WORRY" DO NOT EXACTLY COINCIDE. ESPECIALLY IF IT'S YOU SAYING THEM. DOESN'T FILL ME WITH CONFIDENCE. -J_ **

 

**_Noted. -S_ **

 

The easy banter  _did_ , however, fill Sherlock with it. That was until he heard John's gait on the steps. He was favouring his right leg just a bit. They must have been running him extra ragged and it annoyed Sherlock. Yes, his job was a part of keeping himself grounded and in practice but none of them realized what an asset they had in John Watson. Sherlock never forgot it. He had an eidetic memory so of course not. But the spastic genius hardly ever expressed it. Mostly because he wasn't sure how. He was out of practice with emotions before John came along, especially positive ones. Also there was the fact that he spent the majority of their friendship "dead".

 

"Sherlock?" John's easy lilt rang out through the flat. Sherlock rushed out before he could get his jacket off.

 

**1\. Make sure he has something good to come home to: Make an effort. Put on his favourite outfit and scent. Reassure him of your desire to remain close to him. Bonus points if he compliments your perfume.**

 

Sherlock had no idea what John's favorite scent might be so he settled on what complimented his toiletries and natural scent best. It was spicy and musky with a hint of a tobacco undertone to offset the cigarette he'd sneak here and there. He'd spent ten minutes choosing between three pairs of his best fitting black slacks. He'd also managed to find a duplicate of the amethyst shirt he favoured before his 'holiday', as Big Brother Mycroft put it. It was ruined in the initial execution of it all but it kept John's attention an average of four point eight seconds longer than when he wore any other colour.  

 

"Hello, John. Welcome home." Sherlock stepped into his best friend's personal space as usual, peeling the shorter man's coat the rest of the way off of his arms and hanging it up for him.

 

"Erm, thanks... I guess. So what is this thing you need me for?"

 

"It's an experiment. Of sorts." John stared at him for a moment, carefully keeping his face blank better than Sherlock ever remembered him being able to do, especially when he was knackered.

 

"I see." John blinked at him a moment longer. "That...," he took in a nose full. "Is that a new cologne?" Sherlock said nothing. "Suits you."

 

"Thank you."

 

**2\. Feed him: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Have his favourite meal filling the house with enticing smells while you take care of the next item on the list. Bonus points for making it by hand.**

 

"So this is an experiment?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You know, Sherlock, I've had a bit of a shit day and I first want to get cleaned up and eat-" A grand nose sniffed the air. "That smells fantastic. What is that, pasta sauce?" John moved toward the kitchen and saw the table completely cleared of experimental detritus. What was more surprising was that it was covered with a lace cloth and set with matching china, all of which probably came from Mrs. Hudson.

 

"Yes, John and it has about an hour to finish simmering." Sherlock stepped between the vast pot and John Watson's darting tongue. It was more distracting than it had any right to be. 

 

**3\. Draw him a bath: He's had a hard day, most likely made more difficult by the emotional battering you both took that morning. You've had all day to prepare and calm yourself. Spoil him a little with salts and oils that will make his body melt like butter inside and out. Bonus points for a face mask and atmospheric candles.**

 

"Why don't you go ahead and have a bath in the meantime," Sherlock suggested.

 

"I didn't know you could cook." John leaned back against the lovely table setting and crossed his arms, considering this scene for a moment.

 

"It's basic chemistry, John." 

 

"Right." He didn't move. "Haven't had a bath in a while," he cited. "Well not a hot one. Remember how messed up I got tackling that murderer trying to get rid of the evidence in the middle of Hampstead Heath Park?" How could Sherlock forget? It was the worst bruising he'd ever seen on his partner and it unsettled him. John'd had to take ice baths as part of his physical therapy for two weeks to help his muscles.

 

"Yes, I recall. Have your bath. Off you go." Sherlock sighed and turned to his flat mate. With another lingering puzzled look in which he noticed John's eyes travel down the front of his torso, back up to his mouth, then to his eyes, John began to move. To Sherlock's satisfaction, it was confirmed this shirt had been the correct choice. Also the sauce needed a quarter of a teaspoon more coriander.

 

"Yeah. Alright I'll just..." He made his way across the kitchen to the hall entrance to the bathroom and pushed open the door as Sherlock returned to carefully stirring the sauce. "Erm, Sherlock?"

 

"Mm?" 

 

"What... what's going on?"

 

"With what?"

 

"There are... candles."

 

"Mm. Lavender to promote relaxation and atmosphere." Sherlock gestured fluidly with his explanation not taking his eyes off of his task. 

 

"Ah. Well! In for penny..." John shut the door, probably thinking that the tens of candles made rather enough light despite a minor concern for fire safety. It wasn't any more hazardous than normal in this place so he stripped down and stepped into the rather large tub in the middle of the bathroom floor, sighing contentedly at the temperature on feet he hadn't even realized were sore. A small table contained a bowl of mystery liquid and a plastic mask filled with blue gel in a bowl of ice. He tied it on and was about to sit in the water before the bathroom door opening made him freeze.

 

It apparently had the same effect on the "intruder" because for long moments they just stood there... looking. John's slightly tanned body was literally golden in the candle light. He'd filled out a bit again since Sherlock's return and the dissolution of his grief. The anger portion of his emotions had set him to working out regularly, resulting in a tone physique that was a pleasure to contemplate. Sherlock briefly pondered burning all of his bulky jumpers and replacing them with shirts like his, tailored and luxurious enough to be worthy of touching him. Worthy? That was a strange phrase for his mind to immediately go to. 

 

**4\. Whilst he's in the bath, bring in his favourite beverage to sip and play relaxing music low in the background. Bonus points if it's a playlist you've made personally.**

 

Sherlock was the first to recover, tearing his eyes away from the spectacle before him and looking demurely to the floor on his right.

 

"I, um... I've brought you a... beer."

 

"Ta." He handed him his beverage as if feeding the Baskerville hound a treat then busied himself fiddling with the music player dock in order to give John the illusion of privacy to submerge himself among the bubbles. Soon, strands of the smooth rhythm and blues John usually played when he was by himself, interspersed with pieces Sherlock would play to soothe his nightmares slipped silken from the speakers. "Fuller's London Pride," John said in reference to the drink, indicating it was safe for Sherlock to turn around as well as the prelude to a question. Sherlock found it irregular that he had to steel himself to face him again, his heart having sped up in his lean chest almost painfully. "My favourite."

 

"I know, John." It actually wasn't bad when Sherlock sampled it earlier. He still preferred imported German beers. 

 

"What's in this bowl?"

 

"Oh! It's a compound I created to get that green off of your fingers."

  

"You mad genius!" John sounded pleasantly surprised and more relaxed by the moment. "Do I just, uh, put them in?"

 

"Yes. Soak them for about the next two songs and it should be fine. It's perfectly safe for the bath though all the elements would dilute it so it's better if you just dip your fingertips into the bowl."

 

 

**5\. Apologise: Whether or not you're in the wrong, you've more likely than not contributed to the discontent. Say you're sorry for your part, however small it may be. Bonus points if he apologises first.**

 

"Great. You really are amazing, you know. Sorry about this morning."

 

"I apologise too, John. I shouldn't have... I'm sorry." John's smile was radiant, losing Sherlock in a strange warmth he only felt in his chest around this particular person. "Oh! The sauce!" Sherlock bolted from the room. John could hear him humming along to every single song and smiled into his beer.

 

**6\. Get him his most comfortable or even new lounge wear. Keep supper conversation to topics he's interested in and express your willingness to engage in some of the activities he's interested in even if you're not. Bonus points for matching slippers.**

John emerged with three minutes to spare on his fifteen minute deadline wearing proper pyjamas, navy blue trimmed in gold that brought those colours out in his eyes. They practically glowed sapphire, the honey halo around his pupils enhanced beautifully. He left the dressing gown, fluffy terrycloth the colour of lions open as he shuffled into the kitchen on the soles of brand new house shoes. 

 

"I'd say I feel under-dressed compared to you but I'd be lying," John grinned. "Are these silk?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, plating the meal and pouring the wine.

 

"God this must have set you back. I'm not sure I'm comfortable-"

 

"Shut up and eat your pasta, John," Sherlock cut him off, his tone, however, not unkind as he dropped a piece of garlic bread onto a smaller plate and served it. He didn't take a bite until John had already taken two, chewed and swallowed then apologised once more for not immediately saying how astonishingly delicious it was. Sherlock launched into an explanation of how to get the pasta to John's exact desired consistency but trailed off when John started to get that glazed over look in his eyes. He really was paying attention and it took John a whole lot longer than most people to acquire that expression when Sherlock was talking but it still stung the slightest bit.

 

"Angelo will be jealous," John commented.

 

"This is Angelo's recipe, though I've improved on a few things and... tweaked it a bit to more suit your palate."

 

"Definitely is a lot spicier," John said, sipping the slightly carbonated sweet red. "I'm really enjoying this Sherlock. Thank you."

 

"Good. That's... good. You're welcome." They ate in companionable silence for a while, the music still playing in the bathroom a perfect background, before Sherlock caught the very slight tightening in the set of John's shoulders and the tiny change in how he twirled the fettuccine around his fork. He was gearing up to ask a slightly uncomfortable question. It made Sherlock's stomach lurch just a little and he began pushing his food around on his plate in preparation.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Yes, John?"

 

"You didn't... do something really horrible when I was at work, did you?" Sherlock almost laughed with relief.

 

"No, John. I've been doing, well, this." He indicated the meal with an absently graceful flourish of his hand before tucking back in.

 

"Yes but this is a bit extreme, isn't it? I mean it's not my birthday or a major holiday so... I guess what I'm trying to find out is... why?"

 

Sherlock put his fork down carefully, folded long, pale hands under his chin, and gave his friend an assessing look across the table. John had shaved in the tub and brushed his teeth for some reason. He was wearing the faintest dab of Obsession For Men by Calvin Klein and looked as if he genuinely felt good. Mission accomplished.

 

"You, John Watson, are a singular man." John lowered his own fork in surprise. "You are at once a destroyer and a healer. You are excitement wrapped up in the comforts of home. You are wise and kind and the perfect friend. I'm not good at this... sentiment... thing, but I'm...  _afraid_ , John. Since I've returned, I have this nagging  _feeling_  in the back of my mind that you'll get fed up at being taken for granted and leave." 

 

"All of this because of this morning?" It was obviously all John could say as it was practically sputtered. His plate was practically empty but he clearly wasn't done eating, even though he released his fork so he could look at Sherlock, that puzzled frown making an appearance. Sherlock fought the urge to smooth it out with his thumb. Hm. Weird. How much alcohol had he consumed? There was the beer earlier and a glass of wine whilst cooking and this one was almost gone but it had all been far apart enough to not affect him even on a previously empty stomach.

 

"Not just this morning, no."

 

"So this is... a John Watson appreciation evening then?"

 

"Something to that effect, though you needn't be so dramatic about it." John's laugh filled every crevice of the flat, including Sherlock. 

 

"That's rich!" he howled. "Coming... coming from you... of  _all_  people!" The mirth continued until Sherlock was compelled to join in. John calmed as he leaned back in his chair and emptied his glass. Sherlock refilled both of them and they toasted silently. "Thank you, Sherlock. Really. This is lovely. Even the candles." John couldn't help a residual giggle escaping at that. "Seriously, though, I'm not going anywhere if I can help it." They exchanged a look, heavy with a meaning whose identity was right on the edge of Sherlock's mind, just beyond its reach. It was unnerving.  

 

"Right!" Sherlock said, standing up more quickly than intended. "Whilst we're digesting, I've set up that show you like so much with the actor you like the most playing... Doctor Who?" John smiled beatifically at the effort.

 

"Doctor Who is the question. He's just called The Doctor," John answered automatically. "You know, never mind. Sorry. I don't mean to sound like a prat. I'm just really into the details," he apologised as they removed the wine(along with a couple of fresh beers) and themselves to he sofa.

 

"It's fine," Sherlock conceded. "Far be it from me to scold you for noticing detail." They exchanged a content smile and Sherlock used the remote to put it on and adjust the volume. John settled back to watch and Sherlock settled back to watch John enjoy himself under the guise of reading a book. He'd only ever heard the show, this episode in particular repeatedly in the background during his thinking sessions or experiments. That coupled with this seeming to be one of the most discussed episodes of the entire series lead Sherlock to the conclusion that this was John's favourite.

 

A glass of wine and a beer each later(much more quickly than they should have in retrospect), Sherlock had put his book on the coffee table, using it as a footrest and frowning intently at the television as he leaned back.

 

"Why don't they just close one eye at a time indefinitely?" he asked holding a questioning hand out toward the show, palm up then letting it fall back to his knee with a  _slap_.

 

"You know, I've always wondered that too!" John's speech was a bit less clear than usual. Come to think of it, his own tongue felt a bit thick. The alcohol was taking its toll. But it didn't matter because John was there and happy at having the same thought. There was something a bit intimate about that for some reason. "I suppose it would interfere with the drama."

 

"Oh, please! I mean I understand there would be more issues for people of lineages other than Caucasian to be suddenly transported to the past like that woman there-"

 

"Martha."

 

"What?"

 

"She's called Martha. Martha Jones. She's studying to be a doctor."

 

"Ah. Well _Martha_ may have more of a problem, but you and I would do well in Victorian London."

 

"Think so?" John seemed surprised he'd mentioned other people in a sensitive light. But Sherlock plodded on.

 

"I know so! I have worked under less favourable conditions in my travels and you're just about hopeless with modern technology anyway-"

 

"Oi!" Sherlock cocked an 'Is that so?' eyebrow at his friend's offended exclamation, paused the show and retrieved the man's laptop. He opened it and placed it in his lap, even politely looking away as John entered his password. He already knew what it was, that it had just been changed, and what the new one was, but he was being nice.

 

"Go to your Facebook page," Sherlock commanded. John looked at him a moment before complying. "Now open a new tab." It was done. Now search Sherlock Holmes survival theories."

 

"I'm not going to do that." Sherlock frowned at John.

 

"Some of them are actually amusing. There's even an animated one with that blue police box the man on the telly... What? Not good?"

 

"A lot not good," was his response. John pursed his lips in the way that backed up his words and finally Sherlock understood. Alcohol was bad for his mind.

 

"Ah! Right. Sore spot. Sorry. What about 'weeping angels'?" John did. "Click 'images'." Hundreds came up, some with their faces in their hands, some sporting monstrous visages with massive pointed claws and teeth. John looked at Sherlock a little more than expectantly, indulging in a reason to gaze his fill. "Now take this image here and copy its url into your status window."

 

"What?" 

 

"Point proven," Sherlock's smugness was palpable as he snapped the machine shut and put it aside. He resumed the program, John 's face a study in emotions. There was a slight humiliation, a fondness, and irritation.

 

"I thought this was supposed to be an appreciation night," he mumbled. Sherlock just smiled a bit then leaned back again, drawing his knees up and planting the heels of his feet on the edge of the sofa cushion. John stretched his right arm across the back, behind Sherlock's head. "We should get our photograph taken in one of those places that does the period costumes. See what we'd look like." Sherlock had never wanted to take a photograph in his life. Family portraits and press hounds were just something to be endured. But the idea of him and John in period dress as a result of something he said captured for generations to come sounded absolutely decadent.

 

"I suppose the idea isn't completely appalling," he drawled, trying his best to hide his excitement over it.

 

There was sudden shiver Sherlock controlled before it was too obvious. John was absorbed in his show, not realizing how he absently fiddled with a raven curl at the nape of his flatmate's neck. The doctor was completely unaware of his actions by the look of his, well, everything and Sherlock didn't want him to feel any more embarrassed. Also it was... nice. A few minutes later, John was running his fingertips along the back of his neck as if petting a cat. Only Sherlock was beginning to take issue with it. Well, his body was. He was glad of the position in which he sat because it was good for hiding spontaneous erections. His transport was a pain sometimes. He did what he did best and ignored it.   

 

"I don't suppose you'd ever get a suit like that," John mentioned out of nowhere, still unaware of his actions.

 

"Brown with blue pinstripes?" Sherlock managed his most offended tone to date, which was saying something. "I don't think so, John." John chuckled warmly.

 

"You could pull it off," he stated. "There's a blue one with red pinstripes I think would suit you."

 

"What colour blue?"

 

"TARDIS blue, of course."

 

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, then looked again closely between John and the show. John's contact alternated between casual strokes and light squeezes. The faint clutches weren't as random as initially thought. They seemed to occur whenever Doctor Who(The Doctor, John had corrected him)donned a pair of rectangular tortoise shell spectacles. Interesting. "Show me the blue suit," Sherlock demanded softly. John assessed him with deep dark eyes that looked almost brown in the sparse light.

 

"Yeah. Okay." John seemed to know exact frames, showing Sherlock a stilled scene where there was the blue suit(not as dreadful as the brown one but still)as well as the spectacles. He licked his lips twice as he looked back and fourth between the screen and Sherlock. The taller man noticed his flagged erection attempting to return and mentally waved it off by dashing back to his bedroom. "What... Sherlock?"

 

"I'll be right back!" Sherlock called from the bottom of the wardrobe as he dug in a large duffel bag. He returned to the sitting room with his hands behind his back, standing before John who had paused the show trying to suss out what his mad flatmate was up to now through listening.

 

"What are you doing now?" Sherlock donned his blue dressing gown, the extremely similar glasses and brandished a cerulean highlighter he'd grabbed on the way back, striking a pose he'd seen briefly among the weeping angel images after turning on another lamp.

 

"What d'you think, John?" John's mouth opened and closed noiselessly for a moment and he leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands.

 

"I-I don't think disguising yourself as The Doctor in the UK would do much to make you blend in. In fact," he took a deep breath, "quite the opposite."

 

"Ah. Well it could be a useful distraction at least."

 

"That it could," John murmured. 

 

Then Sherlock cleared his throat and in the perfect rendition of a Scot speaking with an English accent said,

 

"The key to this disguise seems to be talking extremely quickly hardly stopping for breaths and saying clever things disguised as silly things then repeating how clever I am."  John leapt to his feet.

 

"Welp! I'm going to turn in. This was really nice, Sherlock. Thanks ever so. I'll tidy up in the morning. Well done you. Really." John was backing toward the stairs that lead up to his room, nearly stumbling. He wasn't fast enough and Sherlock managed to close the sitting room door just as John backed into it with a soft  _thud_  and exhale of breath.

 

Sherlock summoned up his considerable powers of deduction and really  _looked_  at John. The man was nervous, eyes down and to the right as he did when he didn't want to look at Sherlock. But the detective had already seen the pupils grow impossibly wider even in the presence of additional light introduced. He was controlling his breathing as he did when extremely agitated and kept clenching and un-clenching his left hand.

 

"I thought you weren't gay," Sherlock blurted.

 

"I'm not. I just... Can I go to bed now, please?"

 

"Then why do you fancy The Doctor?"

 

"I don't," John answered, briefly glancing up at Sherlock's face that seemed way too close to his suddenly.  _Oh!_ He could have kicked himself for missing it.

"A little over six foot, thin, wears suits, dark hair, cleverer than everyone..."

 

"Sherlock, just drop it, alright?" John had started to panic.

 

"Common fetish for spectacles on a person you're attracted to."

 

"Please." That resigned almost small voice caused the stone hovering in the middle of Sherlock's chest to drop heavily onto the bottom of his stomach, the contact causing a flaring heat. Words would be insufficient, then.

 

**_7\. Mind blowing make-up sex. Self-explanatory. Bonus points for giving him two or more orgasms._ **

****

Sherlock pushed his lips onto John's, remaining still through the other man's initial shock then abdication. John moved first, moving his mouth to get a better grip on Sherlock's plush lips his hands fisting the dressing gown at Sherlock's collarbones. John pushed his tongue unceremoniously between the heart shaped lips with a a satisfied moan, as if the saliva slicked muscles' interaction was a great relief. 

 

John took control of the kiss, sliding his hands up behind Sherlock's endless neck and using it to direct the movements of his entire body. A press of fingertips here caused the taller man to go nearly boneless. In a different spot, it made that fathomless voice catch repeatedly resulting in a sound like a purr that made John's knees a bit rubbery. John's right hand slipped down a heaving chest, pausing only to tickle the nipple and continue to the rising bulge which he teased mercilessly. Only at the gasped sound of his name and insistent rubbing against his hand did he undo the button and carefully pull down the flies. 

 

Then it was hands off the front as that hand slid around slender hips and past the waistband to grab a handful of a lush firm arse. The only thing keeping Sherlock from floating completely away on sensation was the anchoring left hand at the base of his neck, the one that kept pushing and pulling very slightly. Suddenly they were moving and it took him a full ten seconds to realize it was toward his own bedroom and that was only after John had moved from his mouth to his throat, drawing thin shapely lips and straight white teeth over the skin there.

 

"I have to say I'm surprised that the journal article seems to have yielded the best results," Sherlock panted as they slowly moved toward his door.

 

"Journal article?" John only paused in his ministrations, as if unable to stop completely despite his contradictory feelings. On one hand, he was curious. On the other, he probably didn't want to know. 

 

"Yes. Though the whole thing seemed a bit sexist in my opinion but it also says something that it worked because, well, here we are." Sherlock's words became littered with breaks and wavering as John resumed his course of administering lips and tongue and teeth along Sherlock's throat despite the doctor's astonishment at the fact that Sherlock was revealing himself to be a secret feminist. He couldn't focus on that at the moment. He couldn't really focus on anything but but the feast of skin, muscle and bone before him. Also, 

 

"God, you smell good." John inhaled loudly right behind Sherlock's ear then latched on to the spot. Sherlock's overwrought mind went blank for three seconds. He returned to himself when he heard the door shut somewhere in the distance then felt the side of the bed on the back of his legs. He complied with the natural movement and fell back, meaning to take John with him but the man only kneeled carefully between his thighs and began undoing the shirt buttons. His dressing gown was nowhere to be seen.

 

"It's a combination of rosewood, and a hint of-"

 

"Is this really the conversation you want to be having right now?" John's voice was suddenly gravel as he'd somehow removed all of their clothing except for their pants and was currently grinding their crotches together.

 

"What conversation?"

 

"Good man."

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
